


Seven Hours in the Sun

by hyacinth_sky747



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_sky747/pseuds/hyacinth_sky747





	Seven Hours in the Sun

Seven Hours in the Sun  
NC-17  
John/Sherlock  
Disclaimer: Van scene idea stolen from The Last Enemy. These characters are not mine. I seek no profit.  
Warnings: Adult

 

  
0.

A man named Trevor Lynch saved the lives of Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t plan on it. He’d never met them. He didn’t even know they existed. He had a raging thirst brought on by a hangover. On the way home he bought a bottle of iced tea. The tea came in a glass bottle and Trevor drove with the windows down, letting the brisk air revive him. He wanted to be at home. In bed.

When a lorry braked in front of him Trevor swore and swerved. The bottle fell from his hand onto the roadway. It smashed. Trevor winced. He felt bad about littering. And he was still parched. He drove on. Eventually, he forgot all about it.

1.

John was listing synonyms in his head for the word cold. Frosty,icy, frigid, freezing my fucking bollocks right off. Sherlock had noted the temperature was well below normal for the time of year but didn’t dwell on it. His eyes were closed and his hands were up by the side of his head, his brain whirling feverishly. That was a weakness, this tendency to close his eyes to access his visual memory. He likes to think that they wouldn’t have been captured if his eyes had been open.

“Here we go again,” John said. He was shivering, both from the cold and from fear as they bumped along in the back of the van. A man sat across from them. He had a very large gun. It wasn’t that necessary. A small gun would have the same result.

“Strip,” he said. He tossed a black bin liner at them. “In there. Everything.”

John glanced quickly at Sherlock who was already unwinding his scarf. No way out of it then. John pulled his jumper over his head.

When they were done and everything; clothes, shoes, socks, watches, were in the bag, the man opened the window and shoved it into the street. It wasn’t a wide window. It wasn’t a way for them to get out. The man banged on the wall that separated them from the driver’s compartment and tossed them a pair of blankets.

After a few moments the van stopped. The man got out. They were alone. The van started up again.

“What’s going on?” John asked. He tried to make the blanket cover more of him but it wasn’t a large blanket. It wouldn’t fully wrap around him. It wasn’t even a very warm blanket. It was made out of cotton. He shivered and drew his knees up to his chest, trying to hold in the heat of his body.

“Mycroft.”

“Mycroft? Mycroft did this?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not. He doesn’t normally threaten to shoot us, does he?”

“But you said Mycroft.”

“He tagged our clothes. That’s how he’s been keeping tabs on us. They found out but didn’t know where the tag was.”

“So they got rid of the clothes.”

“Yes. Might be another reason too.”

Sherlock didn’t elaborate. John could see the thoughts whirling through his eyes. He wanted to ask a hundred questions. Who are they? Where are they taking us? Will we die there?

“Yes, what’s the other reason?”

“Hypothermia. It makes a person dull-witted. Stupid. Unable to think.”

That was not good. Sherlock’s brain was the only weapon they had.

John could not control his shivering. He didn’t try to stop it. It was a body’s natural defense to cold. If he stopped shivering he would have to worry. Sherlock wasn’t shivering but John didn’t think he’d started yet. Maybe his brain was keeping him warm.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. John couldn’t feel his feet. Not a good sign. His body was drawing all available blood into his core. Sherlock was pressed tightly against his side. He began to quake.

“Right. Lie down.”

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment but John didn’t have to explain. It was logical. It was the only logical thing to do.

The bed of the van was covered with a rough carpet. They lay on it and arranged the blankets over them. John felt like he was having a seizure he was shaking so badly.

“Your lips are blue,” Sherlock noted.

“Yes. Can’t feel my feet. Or my nose.”

Sherlock pulled him closer. His hands were like ice on John’s back. John buried his face in Sherlock’s chest. He was far past caring about personal space. Sherlock’s body was not something that might have private spaces right then. Right then Sherlock was John’s heat source. He was John’s sun. Sherlock must have felt the same about John. He must have forgotten that he didn’t normally like to be touched because he threw his leg over John’s hip and drew him tightly to his chest.

“Put your hands between us. You’re a better shot than me. You should try to keep your hands warm.”

“Sherlock, I don’t have a gun,” John said. But he pulled his hands between them anyway. Rested the palms of them against his own belly.

“Now. Maybe later. Maybe I can think one. Get one.”

That very nearly didn’t make sense. Sherlock very nearly didn’t make sense and it wasn’t because John was too thick to keep up.

“We can’t let each other fall asleep. Sleep’s bad right now,” John said.

“I know. Tell me about something. Tell me about the solar system. Everything you know.”

John told him about the nine planets. The sun. Asteroids. Big Red Spots. Rings. Oceans of methane. Rovers on Mars. Comets. Black holes. Nebulas and new born stars.

“Maybe they’ll just drive until we’re dead.” John yawned. Freezing to death was supposed to be a pleasant way to go, as far as these things went.

“No, don’t do that. Don’t give in. Tell me about solar flares. Tides on the beach. Something warm.”

John had stopped shivering. Sherlock was running his hands up and down John’s arms.

“Tell me about something warm,” Sherlock demanded.

John told him about Afghanistan. It was hot. Bright. The boys’ eyes were hot with tears and bright with pain when they died. Their hands were hot in his hands. His blood was hot and the pain was bright in his shoulder when he’d been shot.

Sherlock pinched him there. On his injured shoulder. Hard. John’s eyes flashed open and he yelled out. Hot anger boiled up in him.

“Stay awake,” Sherlock said.

The van bumped. Swerved. The dull thudding of a flat tire rocked them against each other. The van had hit Trevor Lynch’s broken bottle. When the police came to help the disabled vehicle Sherlock raised an unholy howl in the back of the van, screaming and throwing his fists against the walls.

The back door opened and a torchlight shone in. John thought it was the sun.

2.

John would do ridiculous things. He’d travel across London to hand Sherlock his phone or get him a pen. True, he’d been manipulated on those occasions and he had been angry, but he hadn’t raised too much of a fuss. And he’d done those things. Passed Sherlock his phone. Took a pen from the table.

Sherlock eliminated that variable. Manipulation. He sat in the kitchen while John was upstairs. Asleep in his bed. He called. Let the phone ring until John answered it.

“I’m famished,” Sherlock said and hung up.

John stomped down the stairs several minutes later, wearing a hideous jumper and a scowl. He banged the plates and slammed the door of the fridge. He set down a sandwich in front of Sherlock.

“I was asleep.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said. He took a bite of the sandwich.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

John was observant in his own way. In the exactly right way as far as Sherlock was concerned. John noticed the things that made life comfortable. Things like food, and milk that was not sour, and laundry, and guns with ammunition in them.

He sometimes forgot to bring the gun. That was Sherlock’s job.

Sherlock asked John to grope around in his jacket for his phone. The jacket Sherlock was wearing. John was steaming. But he did it.

The thing was, John needed to be helpful. He wanted to be of use. He wanted to feel useful even if there was no point to it. He went into a war zone to feel useful. He held the hands of dying soldiers even if there was no hope for them. He shot them full of morphine. Lay over them when the bullets whizzed by.

John would shield you with his body. Quake the warmth of his dying blood into you. Explode stars into supernovas to make the universe seem warmer. Relive the heat of hell to make sure your breath didn’t freeze in your chest. What else would he do?

“I’ll have tea, thank you,” Sherlock said.

John was on the couch, in front of the television. Sherlock was doing him a favor really. The show was awful. John scowled at him but he got up and made the tea.

“I was watching something. You could have made it yourself,” John said as he put the mug on the desk.

“You like doing things for me.”

John grunted and settled back down in his armchair.

“You’d do anything for me.”

John looked at him. “There are limits, Sherlock.”

“Are there? I think you’d take out your cock and masturbate for me if I needed you to.”

John snorted. “You would never need that.”

“What if it was for a case?”

“No case would ever need that.”

“For the sake of argument. If it was needed you would do it.”

John was motionless in his chair. His face was blank and he was staring too hard at the television screen.

“What if I just wanted it?”

John shifted in his seat. His legs shifted open, not a lot, not wantonly, but enough that Sherlock noticed, even if John didn’t notice it himself.

“Do you? Want that?”

Sherlock felt a sensation that was very like the sensation he felt when John had stepped out of the changing booth at the pool. It felt like a blank. It felt like his mind was wiped clean of all thought for a moment and like his heart stopped with it, only to start beating again at double time. It felt like he was standing on the edge of precipice and the empty space below was shrouded in cloud. The gorge could be filled with razors or marshmallows and Sherlock wouldn’t know which it was until he leaped. Sherlock knew he would always leap.

He nodded his head minutely.

John stared him down, giving him the chance to take it back, to smile, look away, dismiss it.

Sherlock didn’t.

John pursed his lips. Looked up at the heavens and popped the button on his trousers open. Sherlock nodded again. His neck felt stiff.

“Fine. Fine,” John said.

He unzipped himself, pulled his trousers down to his thighs and sat there, looking unabashedly back at Sherlock. His cock was half hard and his cheeks were pink.

Sherlock stood up slowly. John’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs and a breath shook from his chest. Sherlock sat on the sofa. Closer. Better view.

“This is weird, Sherlock.”

“Is it? It’s not my area. Touching.”

“The solar system’s not your area, but you’re in it. You’re part of it. You’re a part of this.” John nodded down at his naked crotch. “And you do touch people. Not just in life or death situations. You kiss Mrs. Hudson’s cheek all the time.”

“That’s different. I just want to watch.”

John nodded. “Fine. Okay. That’s…” He didn’t finish. He took his cock in his hand and began to stroke it. “You’ve done this to yourself, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. His neck still felt stiff and his throat was tight.

“Ever watched anyone else?”

“On film. This is better.”

John laughed. “Good. Happy to be of service.”

“You really should have all your clothes off.”

John’s eyes fluttered open. “Limits to my good nature, Sherlock.”

“Next time then,” Sherlock said and John quaked. His hand worked faster over his cock.

“You’re going to touch me, Sherlock. Come here.”

Sherlock didn’t move. He was frozen to the sofa. John let out a huff of frustration.

“Not…You don’t…Just kneel in front of me and put your hands on my knees. You won’t even have to touch my skin.”

Sherlock hesitated. But he’d touched more of John than just his knees already, held John’s naked body to his own. It was different then, yes. There’d been a need for it. Against all logic, Sherlock felt a need for it now. The need for it was pouring from John’s half-shuttered eyes. There was a need deep in Sherlock’s own belly that dropped him to his knees on the floor and propelled him across the carpet.

When he placed his hands on John’s knees John’s eyes slammed shut and his breathing grew loud. Sherlock could smell him here, could feel the warmth of him. John’s hips stuttered off the chair and he was coming, Sherlock’s name bursting from his lips.

Afterwards John was still and didn’t open his eyes for a long time.

“John?”

“Go to bed. Go into your room anyway.”

Sherlock took his hands off John’s knees. He climbed to his feet and walked to his bedroom.

“See you tomorrow,” John said quietly.

“Good night.”

3.

“Tea, please.”

John glared at him but he was up out of his chair and headed toward the kitchen. He banged the fridge door.

“Mrs. Hudson will put that on the rent if you break it.”

John didn’t reply. Just set the mug of tea on the desk. Sherlock spoke before John could sit down again. It seemed the polite thing to do.

“All your clothes this time.”

John froze.

“What?”

“You liked it when I said there’d be a next time. It made you breathe funny and you moved your hand faster on your cock. Take off all your clothes.”

John didn’t turn around. He just stripped and stood in the lamp light with all his skin on display. Sherlock eased by him to sit on the floor. John let out a breath and rotated his shoulders to let the tension out of them. He sat. Smiled.

“It’s still weird, Sherlock.”

Weird, similar to the word freak, but kinder. And John hadn’t said Sherlock was weird. It. The situation. John wasn’t angry.

“Why?”

“Most people want to touch. They want to be touched.”

“I don’t mind touching. I don’t like being touched. I like to look.” He did. John felt like a crime scene spread out in the chair. Sherlock’s eyes raked him, probed him, filed and sorted and classified him.

“Did you wank off last night?”

“Yes.”

John looked surprised.

“Did you like it?”

“I like it when I think about you.”

John’s face changed. There was a nuance there that Sherlock had trouble reading. John’s eyes were soft. He was smiling but he wasn’t laughing or making fun of him. His cock grew hard.

“Put your hands on my thighs.”

Sherlock put his hands on John’s warm skin. He could smell him again. Feel his warmth. John kept dragging his upper teeth over his lower lip. The muscles in his thighs clenched and shook under Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock brought his head closer. Rested his chin on John’s left knee.

“Fuck,” John said. He said that a couple of more times and then he came. Sherlock put his fingers in it. Ran his fingers over John’s belly as he stood up to go to his bedroom.

John took a sharp breath in. Grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock stiffened but John just placed a kiss there, on Sherlock’s wrist, and let him go.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

4.

John put down the tea and took off his clothes. He sat in the chair.

“Listen, you never drink the tea. I’m not making it tomorrow.”

“That’s logical. You’ll still take off your clothes?”

John smiled. “I sleep better after a good wank.”

Sherlock already had his hands on John’s thighs. “Do you ever finger yourself?”

John’s head dropped back against the chair. He moaned.

“What? Weird?”

“Very,” John said but he was smiling.

“Do you?”

“On occasion. Yeah.”

“You’ll show me.” It wasn’t a question.

John shook his head though. “You’ve got to snog me.”

“What?”

“Kissing? Your lips on mine? Your tongue in my mouth? This ringing any bells?”

“I know what it is, John.”

“Good. Then you’ll do it. And tomorrow, that is all we will do.”

“Why?”

“Because Jupiter’s big red spot will swallow Venus whole if we don’t.”

“That is nonsense.”

“Is it? How would you know? You erased all of it.”

Sherlock leaned up on his knees. He leaned in close to John’s ear.

“I never erase anything you say,” he whispered. He took the lobe of John’s ear tenderly between his teeth. John started to tremble like the night in the van. Sherlock let go of the ear. Brought his face close to John’s, close enough to feel John’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek. He brushed their noses together and rested his lips on John’s.

“Oh god, I’m not going to be able to help myself,” John whispered. “I’m going to want to touch you.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists and pulled them over his head, pinning them to the back of the chair. He opened his mouth and let John in. It was messy and breathless and hot. John was keening for more of it when Sherlock pulled away.

“Show me.”

John shook his head as if to clear it. “I want to be on the floor. I need to lie down.”

Sherlock tugged on John’s hips. Cradled his head. Left him sprawled out and panting on the rug. John drew his knees up and Sherlock knelt between them.

“Hold my thighs open.”

Sherlock did. He watched John’s face twist and his fingers work inside of him and his fist pump feverishly at his cock. When John came Sherlock let out a cry of his own.

He was up. On his feet. Headed for his bedroom.

“Stay with me.”

John whispered the words but they pierced Sherlock as if they had been bullets shot from a gun.

“I can’t. I’ve got to…”

“Do it here. I won’t look.”

Sherlock was aching with need. He wanted to bury his face in his mattress and scream John’s name into it as he’d done the past several nights. But John was right there. On the rug. Looking peaceful and warm. He was smiling.

Not making fun of. Just smiling.

Sherlock went back. He lay on the rug and stared at the ceiling. John rolled over. Away from him. Sherlock opened his trousers.

“I bet you’re beautiful. When you let go.”

But he didn’t try to look. John stared at the underside of the sofa and Sherlock stared at the skin of John’s back. It shone in the lamplight. It was alive and warm and so close.

“Do you say my name when you come?”

Sherlock roared it. Three times. He didn’t try to hide it.

When he was done John touched him. He took Sherlock’s hand and held it in his own. He pulled a blanket off the sofa and drew it over them.

“Sleep. Sleep is safe tonight.”

4.

They did not kiss the next night. Or the next. Or the next. They were running around London. Sherlock waltzed into danger. John got kidnapped. Again. Sherlock rescued him this time. He caught the murderer too. He was still with Lestrade at Scotland Yard. John was at 221B, making sandwiches and soup. Sherlock showed up after dark.

“Go to the table and eat,” John said.

Sherlock didn’t even argue. He had dark circles under his eyes, but he looked satisfied with himself, smug, and as peaceful as Sherlock ever looked.

“You were brilliant,” John said.

Sherlock beamed at him. “I think I will sleep tonight.”

“Good idea. You’ve been up far too long.” John was going to say something more but had stopped himself.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “What were you going to ask me?”

“Will you sleep upstairs? With me? Just sleep. I won’t touch you.”

Sherlock would like that. He’d been through John’s room several times. Besides the gun and some medical equipment, there was a distinct lack of dangerous things in John’s room. Things were clean and safe in that room. It would be a nice change to sleep in a clean, safe place. With John.

“Maybe a little snogging? It was quite a leap for me, touching you like that, I shouldn’t like to backslide.”

John was leaning his head on his fist. He was tired. He was smiling. “Just for a bit, then. You need to sleep.”

Sherlock nodded. “You told Donovan to go fuck herself.”

John nodded. He didn’t regret it. He didn’t want to listen to her run Sherlock down anymore. “You look like sex when you’ve got a gun in your hand.”

Sherlock blinked. John cleared the plates off the table. He just dumped them in the sink. They’d keep till tomorrow. He held out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock stood up without taking it.

“I’m fine. I can manage,” he said.

“It’s not for support. I just want to hold your hand.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. A group of thoughts flashed quickly through his eyes. He took John’s hand. John led the way up the darkened stairs. John’s room smelled better than Sherlock’s. It smelled like John. John let go of Sherlock’s hand so they could undress. Sherlock stripped down to his boxers and socks and got under the covers. John was slower. He was hanging up their trousers in the wardrobe. He paused by the side of the bed.

“Need anything? Water?”

Sherlock pointed at John’s boxer shorts. “All of yours. Off.”

John hooked one thumb under the band of his pants and pulled the covers back with the other. He wiggled out and in and Sherlock barely got a glimpse at all. He was disappointed. He wanted to look. He wanted to see. He stuck his head under the covers. It was too dark to see properly. Next time he’d bring a torch.

“I like you to be naked.”

“I know.”

“We could make it a rule. John has to be naked when inside 221B Baker Street.”

“We really couldn’t,” John said.

“I’d pay more of the rent. You would barely have to work at all. Then you could be here. Naked.”

“I’d be cold.”

“I’d pay for more heat.”

“It wouldn’t matter. The windows have a habit of exploding on occasion. The walls frequently develop holes.”

“I could…”

John put the tip of one finger on Sherlock’s lips. “Snog then sleep. No more talking.”

The kisses were languid, sleepy, comfortable. Sherlock drifted towards sleep.

“We should hold hands. I liked that,” Sherlock whispered. John took one of Sherlock’s hands in both of his. He held all three of them under his chin. Slept. Sherlock slept too.

5.

They woke up in the late afternoon and walked to Angelo’s. They were greeted at the door by the man himself who beckoned them to the window table. John shook his head.

“Something in back.”

The booth Angelo gave them was secluded and dark. John ordered without looking at the menu.

“Bring an extra plate for him.”

Angelo shimmered away.

“I’m not eating, John.”

“You’re not on a case. You should eat. You’ll have some of mine.”

Sherlock didn’t respond to that.

“This is almost like a date,” he said.

“It is a date.”

“We’ve been here before, together, and it wasn’t a date.”

“Yes, but after you let someone watch you finger your arsehole everything magically becomes a date. It’s just how it works.”

When the food came Sherlock just watched John eat. It should have been annoying. It should have made John uncomfortable, but it didn’t.

“You should eat naked.”

“You should eat.”

“I ate yesterday. Will you eat things naked when we get home?”

“Not unless you try this.” John twirled the pasta around the fork and held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes but he took the pasta.

“I want to do that. I want to feed you.”

John actually blushed at that. He smiled and shook his head. “Definitely not in public.”

“At home?” Sherlock nodded at the plate of food. “We can take that home.”

“No. You promised to snog me tonight. I’m not performing.”

“But you will be naked? Yes?”

John nodded. Sherlock twitched impatiently.

“If you help me eat it we’ll get home faster.”

Sherlock sighed, but he picked up the fork and began to eat.

It started to rain on the way home. In the living room Sherlock tugged at John’s jumper. “You’re all wet. Get these things off.”

“I’m not that wet.”

“I don’t care. Get it off.”

Sherlock sat in John’s armchair. John was very fond of that chair so he sat in it with him. His bare knees straddled Sherlock’s lap and he put his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock held John’s hips. It felt like he was keeping John close and holding him at bay at the same time. John kept his hands on the back of the chair, dug his nails into the upholstery so he’d remember not to touch.

John was starting to get off on being naked while Sherlock was fully dressed. It made him feel vulnerable. It made him tremble. It made his blood leap like licks of flame.

Sherlock did a lot of touching, all of it with his tongue and his lips and sometimes his teeth. He kissed John’s face and ears and shoulders. He kissed John’s nipples and his belly. He spent a long time sucking John’s lips and panting into John’s mouth.

John pulled away, needing to breathe. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s and looked down between their bodies at his cock. He was hard. God, he was hard. Pre-come was leaking from him. It had made a wet spot on the front of Sherlock’s shirt.

The sight of it made John moan with lust. He wondered briefly if Sherlock would be angry. He was awfully particular about his clothes. John looked back up at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was looking down but he raised his eyes to meet John’s. They were dark and dangerous looking.

“Sorry.”

“I want you in my mouth.”

John’s breath hitched and his back arched. “Oh god yes please.”

He tried to thrust his hips forward but Sherlock’s hands tightened on him. “Not with you over me. I can’t.”

John tried to calm his breathing. “Sorry. Put me where ever you want. Just please do it quick.”

Sherlock spread John out on the floor, spread John’s legs wide and knelt between them. He pulled John’s arms up, told him to hold the leg of the chair.

“Will you remember not to touch? It wouldn’t be good if you grabbed my head.”

John shook his head. He didn’t know. He couldn’t think. He was thrusting his hips as if he could get friction from the air. Sherlock looked around wildly. One of them had abandoned a neck tie on the sofa earlier in the week. He swiftly tied John’s wrists together.

“Okay?”

John just moaned in agreement. He was flushed and sweaty and lust was making it hard for him to keep his eyes all the way open. Sherlock braced himself with a hand on each of John’s thighs and bent forward.

John’s whole body went as tight as a bow string. He bit his bottom lip and held onto the leg of the chair. He was keening and panting Sherlock’s name and the sound of him, the taste and feel of John Watson writhing on the floor made Sherlock sweat.

When it was over Sherlock wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His shirt was probably ruined but Sherlock thought he’d keep it anyway. Keep it and never ever wash it again. He untied John’s hands.

“That was amazing. You’re amazing,” John said. “Can I do anything for you?”

Sherlock hesitated. “No. You can watch if you’d like though.”

John curled up on his side and Sherlock lay on his back on the floor. John kissed Sherlock’s cheek and his shoulder. “Go on then. Show me.”

John squeezed his hands into fists while he watched. He wanted so badly to touch. After a few moments Sherlock opened his eyes. “May I ejaculate on your face, please?”

6.

Sherlock left a note on the tea kettle. “With Mycroft. SH.”

John had to be at the clinic anyway. There was a stomach virus making the rounds. It felt good to be back at work, to talk to adults who didn’t order him around or look at him like he had the intelligence of a not-very-bright hamster. The first time John told a mother her son had a stomach virus he half expected her to say, “Well deduced, Doctor, but I was hoping you’d go a bit further.”

She didn’t, of course. Sarah shot him some odd looks throughout the day but John supposed that was to be expected if you stood a woman up on three different occasions because you had been kidnapped. John had let her break off the relationship. He wasn’t good at initiating break-ups.

“You’re a lovely man, John. I’m just looking for something more…”

“Normal? Sane? Less ridiculous?” John had supplied helpfully.

“More secure,” she said and smiled. “You’d end up breaking my heart one way or another.”

They had remained friends, or friendly colleagues anyway, but the looks she was giving him today sent him to the mirror to inspect his teeth for stray food, the fly of his trousers, his neck for love bites. He looked like he always did. Nothing out of place.

By the time the second six-year-old had thrown up on him John was ready to call it a day. He was wondering if he should have taken Sherlock up on his offer to stay home and prance about naked all day when his phone chirped.

~Come home.~

~Two more appointments. Soon.~

John tried not to glance at the clock while he listened to his last two patients list their symptoms. He hurried out of the clinic afterwards. He made himself stop for a take away and ate it on the street. Food had a habit of falling to the bottom of the priorities list when he was in Sherlock’s presence and John was actually hungry.

Sherlock was in John’s room. He was on the bed and had John’s spare stethoscope hanging from his neck. John’s medical bag was open on the bureau and other bags were strewn about the floor.

“That’s not a toy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Clothes.”

“What are you doing?”

“Clothes!”

John sighed. He ought to protest. He at least ought to make Sherlock put his stethoscope away. He didn’t. He was spread out on the bed several minutes later with Sherlock looming over him. Sherlock put the chestpiece of the stethoscope above John’s nipple.

“You could warm it, damn it!”

Sherlock leaned back and cupped the piece in his hand for a moment but otherwise didn’t respond. He listened again.

“What are you listening for?”

“Just raw data. Turn over, please.”

John rolled and let Sherlock press the instrument to his back. He breathed in and out deeply when Sherlock told him to and found himself relaxing in spite of himself.

“You’ve been vomited on. Twice.”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock got off the bed to rummage around in one of the bags.

“Roll over.” John turned again. Sherlock was wearing latex gloves and holding a pair of scissors.

“What the fuck, Sherlock?”

“I need your hair.”

“My hair?”

“For evidence.”

“Have I committed a crime?”

“For data. It won’t hurt for God’s sake.”

“Not the point. You should ask.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “May I?”

John was going to say no. Normal people would say no. Normal people wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. “Fine. Just…what are going to do with it?” Not normal then.

“Look at you.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock cut a lock of hair from John’s head, spread his legs and cut some of John’s pubic hair as well. He took the samples and put them in evidence bags. Next he swabbed the inside of John’s cheek.

“What do you need my DNA for?”

“I told you. I want to look at you.”

It should not have been endearing. Having your pubic hair and cheek cells carted off to the lab to be gazed at was not romantic. Except it was Sherlock. Most things bored Sherlock. Most people were not important enough to garner more than a penetrating glance before they were dismissed as inadequate. John felt rather privileged.

Sherlock was holding a syringe and tourniquet. John sat up.

“I’ll do that.”

“Really, John, I’m more than capable.”

“No…not…no.” John grabbed the syringe. “No.” He tied the tourniquet with the help of his teeth, drew the blood and handed it back to Sherlock.

“I’m clean, you know. I’ve been checked.”

“Yes. I know.”

Yes. That was typical. Sherlock would know. He’d deduce that John would be the kind of person to get checked out every once in awhile. Military service. Doctor. But no one could deduce that another person was not carrying HIV or…

“You’ve seen my medical records.”

“I haven’t.”

Not a lie but…”Mycroft has seen my medical records.”

“Well done, John.”

“It’s an obscene breach of my privacy. You told him about us.”

“Yes.”

It was a normal thing to do. Confide in ones older brother about ones sex life. When applied to Sherlock the normal became bizarre.

“You won’t tell him what you ate for dinner. Why would you tell him about us?”

“Problem?” Sherlock’s eyebrows were raised. He looked, suddenly, wary, which was an expression John saw very rarely on Sherlock’s face.

“No. It’s fine. I’m not ashamed of it. It’s wildly out of character is all.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He knew anyway.”

“How could he possibly…” John thought about long range lenses and tags on clothes and tiny cameras. “Nope. Wait. Don’t want to know.” If his sex life was being monitored by the British government John was going to remain ignorant of that fact. “Done now? Off to the lab?”

“No. I need a few fluids.”

“I’m not pissing in a cup.”

“That’s absurd. I’ve got your blood.”

“No. No. I don’t care. No. You do not need to look at my urine.”

Sherlock sighed. “Lay down then.”

John scooted back to lean against the headboard but he did not lie down. He was not letting Sherlock out of his sight. He almost laughed at the next instrument Sherlock pulled out.

“That was not in my medical kit.”

“I know. That’s why I got you one.”

“I don’t need a speculum, Sherlock.”

“I do. It’s for looking at you.”

John squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. He was actually going to do this. He was going to let Sherlock stick that thing up his arse. He was going to get off on it. He could already feel his cock growing hard at the thought of it. He opened his eyes.

“Weird?”

“A bit.”

“I got you a new dildo too. Yours was the wrong color. We can try that first if you’d like.”

John slid down the headboard until he was lying flat on his back. “You’ve been through my room.” It wasn’t a question. And he wasn’t even surprised. If you let people rummage around in your DNA of course they would go through your personal belongings.

“I hope you got lube? Yes?”

“Sometimes you talk to me like I’m mentally deficient.”

“Solar. System.”

“Fuck. Off.”

John giggled. It was fucking funny. Sherlock hardly ever cursed.

“Sarah remembered it actually,” Sherlock admitted.

John’s eyes flew open. “What? Sarah? You got that thing from Sarah?”

“Hmm. It’s disposable. You could bring another home with you if you’d like.”

“The woman I used to date? The woman I work for? That Sarah?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock got the cap of the lube open and poured some into his hand. “I told her it was for a case.”

John closed his eyes again. “She didn’t believe you.”

“She’s smarter than a lot of people.”

John grinned. Coming from Sherlock that was like saying I love you. John ought to feel jealous. Instead he felt Sherlock’s fingers between his legs and he drew his knees up. Sherlock was gentle. His head was bent low to the mattress, watching. It was nice. Felt nice.

“Been –oh fuck—reading up on technique?”

“Practicing.” Sherlock said. On himself. God. Why was that so hot? Sherlock withdrew his fingers.

“Should I turn over?”

Sherlock frowned. “Wanted to watch your face but…”

“No, we’ll give it a go anyway.” John hooked his fingers under his knees and pulled his legs to his chest. God, he felt like a slut. Felt good. Sherlock liked it.

The speculum didn’t hurt. A bit of pressure. The pressure of Sherlock’s gaze was more intense. John could feel it. His skin burned with the severity of that gaze. John waited until the muscles in his thighs began to tremble.

“Can you touch me? Can I touch myself? I need…”

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s cock and stroked him until he came.

“Take it out of me.”

When the speculum was gone John felt boneless. He drifted on the bed for a moment.

“Can I come on you again?”

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed. His trousers were open and his cock was in his hand.

“Let me?”

Sherlock stiffened.

“No, listen. I won’t touch you. You’ll touch me. You’ll touch my mouth. You’ve already done that. Just not with your cock.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and his knuckles went white. John scrambled into a sitting position.

“Take your trousers down? It will be better. I promise. Good. Rest your hips on my hands.”

Sherlock was shaking and his eyes were closed but he leaned forward to allow John to hold onto his hips for balance.

“Whenever you’re ready, mate,” John spoke with lips almost touching Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock could feel John’s breath as he spoke the words. He thrust his hips forward and John opened his mouth to take him in. It wasn’t the best blow job John had ever given. It was awkward without the use of his hands but Sherlock was trembling and letting out harsh cries that sounded like sobs. When he was close John pulled back and let Sherlock come on his cheek. They both fell to the mattress, panting.

“Hand?”

John took Sherlock’s hand and held it under his chin. Post-coital cuddle, Holmes style. Sherlock let out a sigh. “I might like you to do that again sometime.”

John smiled at him but frowned when Sherlock groaned.

“You hurt?”

“I forgot to get a sample of your semen.”

“Oh, well, more where that came from.”

Sherlock took his free hand and ran his fingers through John’s hair. The bed was littered with evidence bags, hair samples, swabs, and bodily fluids. The encounter had probably been recorded by perverts in Mycroft’s employ. It had been one hell of a fucked up day.

John had a feeling that when he was eighty he’d have forgotten all of it but Sherlock’s fingers stroking through his hair.

7.

Sherlock wanted him up against the wall and John wanted to do whatever it took to get Sherlock to fuck him. So, one foot on the back of the sofa, the other on the seat of the kitchen chair. His bum in Sherlock’s hands. Head leaning back against the smiley face and bullet holes. Hello. Sherlock’s fingers spreading his crack and—fuck, fuck, fuck. In.

Fucking bliss. The long length of Sherlock’s naked torso pressing against him. Sweat making them both slippery. John being allowed to grip Sherlock’s bare shoulders. Kiss his face. Sherlock’s nose burrowed into John’s neck. His breath hot and harsh. Sherlock trembling as his orgasm mounted.

“Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Fuck me. Keep fucking me.”

Footsteps on the fucking stairs. Lestrade’s. Sherlock coming and coming.

“Oh fuck. Don’t open the door!”

Too late. Door open. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson with wide eyes. A split second when Sherlock nearly dropped him. Another when he grabbed John tightly to his chest. Door closed.

Sherlock’s face looking comically shocked. “Down in a minute!”

John rubbed his face against Sherlock’s cheek. “Please let me finish. Please. Please.”

Sherlock dumped him on the sofa. Spread his legs. Took John between his lips and put a hand over John’s mouth for him to scream into. John did. Everything smelled like sex. Sherlock’s hair was standing straight up. He kissed John’s belly.

“I’ll get the guns. You get our clothes.”

John shook his head to clear it. “Right.”

Clothes on. Ammunition in the guns. Pounding down the stairs. Kissing Mrs. Hudson’s cheek. On out into the spray of automobiles, exhaust fumes, criminals, and city lights. Running, leaping over fences, getting punched in the head. Case solved. Home. Ammunition out of guns. Clothes off. Bed.

Sherlock tugged John closer. Held John tight against his chest.

“Touch me, John.”

John’s heart leaped with joy.  



End file.
